My toddler is the boss of me

Sometimes, loving a toddler is like being in a co-dependent relationship with a bad boss. You know, who yells at you, demands things yesterday and orders you to get their lunch. So why do we put up with it? Well…

He’s two, I’m 36. He’s shorter than me by half. He uses sentences like “mummy, I dun poo-poo in potty”, whilst I am able to fully conduct an adult conversation (well, mostly… if I’ve had some sleep) and use a proper toilet come to that.He’s at pre-school and spends his day painting at an easel; I have a university degree, and have spent 15 years working to stressful publishing deadlines.

He says “Jump!”, and I say, “How high?”. You see, my toddler is the boss of me.

Firstly, let me get this straight. My son is not badly behaved. He is exceptionally good at saying his pleases and thank yous and sorry-I-stole-your-scooter’s. He holds my hand without objection when we cross the road, and he’s great at sharing with his baby sister. He is sweet, loving and full of smiles. But there’s no denying it – he rules the roost.

My brother-in-law first pointed it out. “If this was employment contract, you’d be earning big bucks, because that kid is actually your boss,” he said, as I proceeded to prove his point by giving the boss my son eight different breakfast options – Cereal with milk? Cereal without milk? Toast and Vegemite? Eggs…..?

Evidently we are pro-choice in our home (it will equip him for decision-making later in life, right?), but I’ll admit our servitude as parents goes beyond the food issue. Like at night.

My boy is prone to 4am wake-ups, and rather than let him cry it out, the lure of that little sad voice will usually find me catering to his “Mummy, sing song NOW!” whims. Last week I found myself belting out Les Miserables before he’d go back to sleep – and I ain’t no Anne Hathaway, I can tell you. I dared to deviate to Mary Poppins, and this was not satisfactory. “NO, mummy! I want OTHER SONG!” And so back I went to 19th Century France. At 4am.

More often than not, I’ll fall over myself to get out of the door and in to the car because my little man has decreed that it is time to drive to the pool. Or to the park. Or to the beach. Or, God forbid, to that horrible place with all the tunnels and ball pits. And I don’t even want to think about how many $2 coins I’ve paid the Sesame Street carousel at the mall, because it’s essential my little man chills out after we’ve finished a stressful food shop.

Obviously, I draw the line when it comes to non-negotiables like strapping him in when we drive, or holding hands when we’re walking alongside a busy road. He is not allowed to push, he is made to share, and putting Peppa Pig stickers on the cat is altogether a no-no.

But I’ll admit it, this little boy is running rings around me. All 90cm of him. Now excuse me while I go and find the car keys. He wants to go to the pool…..

Is your child the boss?